


A Helping Hand

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 22:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12375861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: Superman's in a tight spot. Batman helps out.





	1. A Friend in Need

All in all, Bruce was in a pretty good mood. The party had been dreadful, but he’d been able to escape by 11:00 and by 11:41 he was descending the stairs to the cave, ready to change out of his tuxedo and into Batman. So far so good, until he rounded the last corner. Sitting in his chair was the back of a head he knew well. 

“Superman?” 

Superman twisted to face him. “Um, yeah, Bruce.” 

“Superman,” Bruce said, “you don’t… you don’t look good.” And he didn’t. He looked… distressed. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were a bit… unfocused, even as he trained them on Bruce’s, the blue shot with the faintest stripes of red, and way too much black, blown pupils. 

“What’s going on?”

“Hmm?” Superman looked down at his hands.

Bruce took a step closer and Superman balled his fists. But he didn’t look angry. Bruce tried to catalog exactly what emotion Superman was showing him. “What’s wrong?”

Superman laughed at that, and it was Clark’s laugh at first: open, normal. But then it just dissolved into a kind of nervous giggle—very, very disconcerting. From anyone, frankly. Exponentially worse coming from the Man of Steel. The man didn’t make eye contact.

“Your laugh is unsettling.” Bruce put his hands on the arms of his chair and Superman’s gaze darted everywhere but Bruce. Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed. He reached for Superman’s chin, lifting it to force him to look at his face and Superman gasped when Bruce’s fingers made contact, shrinking back. “Clark, look at me.” He urged the man’s chin up. Clark’s sighed, opening his eyes. 

“Have you been drugged?” 

“No… it’s just… Maybe?”

Bruce stepped back, eyes shooting to where he kept the kryptonite. 

Clark’s eyes caught the look. “Won’t help,” he groaned out. 

“Can’t hurt.” Bruce made a mental note to change where he kept the stash. 

“I’m already sick, Bruce,” Clark said. 

“What’s wrong?”

Superman just shrugged. 

Bruce felt his forehead and Clark leaned disconcertingly into the touch. “You are very hot.”

Clark snickered at that. Also disconcerting.

“Come over to the medical bay, Clark. I’d like to examine you.” 

Superman raised his eyebrows with a kind of a dopey smile and looked like he might…

“Don’t you giggle again.”

“Superman doesn’t giggle.”

“No, he doesn’t usually.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Up?”

Clark still didn’t move.

“Do you need my help?” 

“No!” Clark said quickly, and stood. It was a little shaky, but he was up. 

“Come on, then,” Bruce said, reaching a hand and gripping Superman under the armpit as they walked. Superman was literally trembling, and Bruce was starting to truly worry. “What got you, Superman?” 

“Meteor,” Superman said through gritted teeth. “Knocked the heck out of me.”

“Did it hit your head?”

“Hit my head when I landed in another dimension. Came to some… aliens were climbing around in my brain.”

Bruce frowned. “Sit down.” He shoved him toward a cot and Superman flopped onto it, making the frame skitter on the floor of the cave as the backs of his legs hit the thing. 

Bruce pushed his hand through Superman’s hair to pull his head back, shining a light in his eyes. “What did they … what do you think they did in there? Follow the light, please.”

“I don’t know, Bruce.” Superman’s voice was weirdly plaintive, a tone Bruce had never heard from the man. “It was all colors and thoughts and waves of…ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?” Bruce felt the back of Superman’s head, running his fingers carefully through Clark’s hair, feeling for any bumps or contusions. “Does this hurt?”

“No.” Clark shook his head. “Sex.”

Bruce’s hand stilled. “What?”

Clark’s breathed deeply, once, like he was summoning all his courage. Like Superman was summoning all his courage, and all he said was two words. “Sex ideas.”

“I see…” Bruce pulled his hand away and took a step back. 

“Yeah,” Clark whispered, slumping down a little, again not making eye contact. 

Bruce mentally calculated how quickly he could get to the kryptonite from where he was currently standing. “Do you think you could be a little more forthcoming, Superman? I’m a bit confused.”

“You think you’re confused.” Superman slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I have to have sex,” he finally spit out, sounding pitiful. 

Bruce decided to humor him. He did, after all, own kryptonite. “Clark,” he said, slowly and probably, if he was honest, a little condescendingly, “You’re a married man. You can and rather obviously do have sex all the time.”

Superman snorted. “No, Bruce. You don’t get it.” He looked up, head still in his hands. “With a man.”

Bruce snorted now, he couldn’t help it. “We are officially in the Twilight Zone, Superman. You’re believing that a meteor wants you to….” Bruce couldn’t quite finish.

“Not just wants me to, Bruce. I have to.”

“I see.” Bruce lied, crossing his arms. “Well.” He tapped his foot and studied the ceiling of the cave. “What would make you think that?”

“They told me, Bruce.”

“And are they still telling you now?” 

Superman rolled his eyes at him. “No. They hard-wired me, somehow, though. I’ve got to do it to get back to normal.” 

“I’m sure we can figure this out, Superman. Assuming that this is true—”

“It is, Bruce. I’ve been working on—trying to work around it—for a while now. And…” He sighed loudly, “there’s a Kryptonian prophecy about it.”

“Really? There’s a Kryptonian prophecy that Kal of El must—”

“No!” Superman looked startled at the loudness of his own voice. “It has to do with Kryptonian physiology, okay? Male. Don’t make me spell it out, Bruce.”

“And what, according to this prophecy, will happen if you don’t… you know.”

“Goddamn if I know.”

“Superman!” Bruce’s mouth dropped open. “Superman, what is wrong with you…”

“See? I know, Bruce. It’s awful. I’ve been like this for days.”

“How many?”

“Honestly?” Superman’s voice rose in frustration. “I’ve lost track. I’d have to go and check the logs at the fortress.” He squinted thoughtfully at Bruce. “Do you want to go to the fortress?”

“No.” Bruce said, clipped and firm. “No, I do not.”

Superman shrugged. “Can’t think, can’t sleep, I’m so…”

“Wired a little tightly.”

“Exactly! Thank you Bruce, for understanding.”

“You’re my friend, Clark,” Bruce said blandly. “Have you tried…”

“I’ve tried everything, Bruce.”

“Tried to…” Bruce sought the right words. “Work it out yours—”

“Yes!” Clark snapped. 

“How?”

Superman scowled at him. “Do you really want to know?”

Bruce blinked. “No. Actually, I don’t. What about Lois? Have you tried—”

“Sleeping with Lois?”

“Or, not sleeping.”

Clark’s face reddened in a blush, but his jaw was hard. “Lois is… Lois is really upset, Bruce. She’s been great about this, but it’s not helping.” From the pocket in his cape, he pulled out a cell phone. “Here,” he said, all embarrassed, pissy resignation. “Call her. 

Bruce backed away from the cell phone like it was radioactive. “What? Talk to Lois about your sex life? I’d really rather not, Clark.” 

“She gave permission.” 

“What?” 

“For us to—you know. If you, you know—would.”

“Me? Look, of course I’m very flattered, Superman, if some Kryptonian piece of trivia and theoretical aliens stomping around your subconscious decided I should be your… Well…” Bruce sputtered, not able to finish that thought. “But—”

“No.”

“What?”

“Not you specifically.”

“Oh.” Bruce felt oddly hurt. “Well, good work, Casanova.” 

Clark scrubbed at his face. “What?”

“Not really trying too hard to work your way into…” Bruce waved a hand, thoroughly disgusted.

“This is… the most embarrassing thing that I’ve ever—Do you think I want to come ask… to ask you, Bruce? But you’re my best friend. The only one I could ask.”

“Assuming, and this is all just assuming, because I think you’re just suffering from a concussion, why not follow this to its logical conclusion?”

“I’ve ruled out a concussion. Four days in the fortress running tests and trying to figure this out. You’re my last hope, Bruce.”

“Assuming it’s not a concussion, or a hypnotic suggestion, or disturbance in the fabric of the universe—and I’m not ruling that out yet—why not…” Bruce cleared his throat delicately. “Why not hire someone?”

Superman’s eyes widened in horror. “I don’t want a sordid… Bruce, I couldn’t do that.”

Bruce knew it was wrong—and wrong on at least fifty levels, but he said it anyway. “Are you that much of a prude?”

Superman’s eyes looked like they might be watering just a little, and that made Bruce feel… bad. It made him feel bad. Clark was his best friend and he didn’t deserve this, even if it was in his own mind. “I can’t just—” he waved his arm, “with a stranger, Bruce.” His voice broke on the last few words and he buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t, thank god, crying, but oh no—then his shoulders shook. 

It was a little more than Bruce could take. “There, there,” he tried, remembering when Dick had been very young and hurting over a slight at school. His hand hovered over Superman’s shoulder, hesitating, before he brought it down to pat him. “There, there.”

Superman sniffled and Bruce got up to find him a tissue. He sat down next to him on the cot and handed it to the strongest man in the universe. 

Superman took it, holding out his phone. “Call her.”

Bruce stared down at Superman’s hand.

“Call Lois. She’ll tell you.”

“What would she tell me, Clark?”

“How crazy I’ve been. How she’s tried—we’ve tried everything but it’s no good. It’s got to be a man. And Bruce,” he said, looking up through slightly watery eyes. “We’ve tried everything.”

Bruce snorted softly. “Well, aren’t you both just troopers.”

Superman’s eyes narrowed a little at him. “And she told me to come see you.”

“For sex.”

Superman nodded. 

“The day I talk to Lois Lane about sex will be the day you need to commit me to Arkham, but I will call her about you in general. You’re a mess, Clark.”

“I’m quite aware, Bruce.”

Bruce snatched the phone from Superman’s outstretched hand and stalked over to get the tiniest bit of privacy. Not that it mattered when you were dealing with super-hearing, but he could pretend, at least. 

“Lois,” Bruce said into the phone when she answered. “I’m with Clark, Lois.” 

“You going to help him out, Bruce?”

“Lois, I don’t think…”

“Look, he needs help. You’re his friend.”

”Not that kind of friend, Lois!” Bruce tamped down the edge of panic in his voice. “Not that kind!” he hissed, watching Clark pretend he wasn’t listening out of the corner of his eye.

“Bruce, I’m on assignment in Istanbul. I can’t talk long, but…”

“But what, Lois?”

“First of all, I want him back. You can’t keep him.”

“Lois, that’s not—”

“Second, do you know how hard this is for him? How embarrassing?”

“For him? What about me?”

“You’re not the one asking your best friend for a favor.” 

“A favor? That’s what they’re calling it these days?”

“You’re his best friend. Who else is he going to ask, Bruce? He needs you.”

And that’s when Bruce knew he was going to do it. Superman did need him, Clark needed him, and damn it, he almost threw the phone across the cave. But he didn’t. “Lois, I have to go,” he said, only half listening to her next few words, switching the thing off and handing it to Clark.

Superman took it without making eye contact. 

Bruce took a deep breath, surveying the Man of Steel, most powerful man on earth, defender of right and freedom. He looked… terrible. Nervous and scared, anxious and insecure. Superman really should never have to look like that. Never. He reached out to squeeze the man’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Come with me, Clark.”

Clark nodded solemnly, ready to trust Bruce. He could have led him anywhere, honestly, but Bruce chose a doorway one door down from the medical bay and opened it. 

Clark inhaled sharply. 

Bruce put a forced, too tight smile on his face and squared his shoulders. “Sometimes I catch a nap down here.”

Eyes huge, Clark’s face colored redder. 

“Come in, Clark. You’re acting like it’s our first date.” 

“Is that a joke, Bruce?”

“You have to admit this is ridiculous, Superman.” Bruce locked the door, pulling off his jacket. How far do we have to go, do you think?”

“Far?”

“Yes, Clark. In order to satisfy these possibly nonexistent interdimensional aliens.” 

“They aren’t just in my mind, Bruce.” 

“I’m a scientist, Clark. I’m also your friend. I’m willing to… try to help you out. But I’d like to know what it is you think we’re going to need to do.”

“Do?” Clark’s voice was an octave too high.

“Are you frightened? Now?” Bruce removed his cufflinks, placing them on the nightstand by the bed. 

“No.” Clark said, entirely too sharply.

“Hmm?” Bruce tilted his head, unbuttoning his shirt and watching Clark blush. “I think you are, a little.” For some reason, this made him feel better. Bolder and competitive, and those were welcome, familiar feelings in this new, unbalanced territory. Bruce yanked off his shirt and now only in his slacks and undershirt, took Clark’s chin in one hand to guide his eyes to his. “Clark, supposedly aliens want us to have gay sex. How far do we need to go?”

“I think we just… “ Clark blinked, eyes a little unfocused. “Okay Bruce, I can’t do this.”

“Really?”

Clark nodded with his eyes closed. “What did Lois say?”

“Lois says you’ve been a wreck for the last week. Unable to think or focus, to do your job at the Planet or your… well, other job.” Finger still under Clark’s chin, he stroked his cheek with his thumb. And by the third stroke, Clark slowly opened his eyes. The pupils were enormous, ringed with so much red that it had turned the blue purple. 

Bruce frowned, studying Clark’s eyes carefully. Poor man really was a mess. “Put your hand on my shoulder, Superman.”

Breathing deeply through his nose, eyes still wide and too wild, Superman did as he was told. His hand was trembling and Bruce put his over it to hold it steady. “It’s okay, Clark. We’ll get you through this.”

Clark nodded, suddenly and unexpectedly pulling Bruce up and to him, hard, to bury his face in Bruce’s neck and… Oh god. He was just—smelling him. Superman was smelling him, and good Christ, that was unnerving, having the man run his nose up and down the side of Bruce’s throat. Very unnerving. 

“Um,” Bruce said, hating that he’d said “um.” He cleared his throat. “Slow down, Clark.” 

Clark nodded against him, breath warm on his neck. 

“Maybe you should…”

Clark froze, waiting, and Bruce tried to figure out what he wanted to even say. It wasn’t terrible having Superman waiting to follow your exact directive, even if it wasn’t a directive you had any faith in turning out well. “Sit down, Clark.”


	2. A Friend Indeed

“What, now you’re thinking this all the way through? Now?” It had to be one of the oddest experiences of Bruce’s life—and that was saying something, to tell Superman to get in bed. Although Bruce couldn’t quite bring himself to pull down the bedcovers any more than he could waltz upstairs and take Superman with him to his bedroom in the manor.

Clark just stared at him, eyes wide and tense and skittish, like a wild animal caught in the headlights, or maybe a trap. Like Bruce was the hunter, and maybe he was. He could play that, anyway. “Sit,” he said, hand heavy with a push to Superman’s shoulder. “Sit down.”

It was bizarre to pull Superman up close like this. For Bruce to have his feet tucked under, thighs open—to be on a bed with Superman, and to pull him up snug against him, his back to Bruce’s chest. 

Superman—Clark—must have been going for something… something that would ground him, get him on a more even keel, because he blinked, taking in his own blue-covered legs against Bruce’s black tuxedo slacks, and in a voice that was pure I-just-fell-off-a-hay-truck said, “You know, Bruce, the only thing weirder would be if you were in your Batsuit.”

Bruce snorted, almost wishing for his uniform—another layer of protection—the chance to cover up, not feel so damn exposed and vulnerable, but he steeled himself. He could do this. 

“Um,” Clark said, biting his lip. “Is it a little bright in here to you?”

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Clark.” Bruce didn’t even try to modulate his tone, daring Clark to make any more demands. Trust Superman to want an ambiance. Next he’d want flowers and candy. “Do you need mood music, too?”

“What?” Clark looked at him like he was crazy, then shrugged, muscles tensing and releasing against Bruce’s chest. “I just—”

“No, no—if that’s the way you want to do this.” Bruce got up and switched off the overhead, leaving only a small bedside lamp. “Happy?”

“No big deal, Bruce.”

Bruce slid back into place, against the headboard but behind the Man of Steel. Superman looked down at their legs again, then tipped his head to meet Bruce’s eyes, his hair brushing Bruce’s jaw, and said in kind of an awed voice, “You’re so limber.”

That shocked a little huff of a surprised laugh out of Bruce, his mouth curving in a lopsided grin. 

Clark smiled a small smile back, relaxed for just a moment, then seemed to remember himself, their goal. “This isn’t going to work.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the pessimist.” 

“It isn’t. Going to work, I mean.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Clark made an unconvinced ‘hmm’ sound. 

Bruce thought back to every motivational speech Batman had ever given, deciding, that despite the utter novelty of this particular situation, the best fit might one that had helped a teenage Dick through many a difficult spot. “We’ll just give it the old college try, then.”

However, what worked for Dick when besting Crazy Quilt did not seem to help Superman with his first homosexual experience. Clark twisted to frown at him, and that just made Bruce feel more churlish, suddenly needing to declare firmer boundaries. “And I’m really not willing to try anything more… involved.”

That must have gotten to the Man of Steel, because his face fell. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” Clark said, eyes large and spooked, and his breath—breath he didn’t even need, coming way too fast and harried. 

It was a little more than Bruce could take. “Relax, Clark.” Bruce let his hands gentle up down the man’s sides, trying not to think, just to feel the warm muscles under his palms. This could be a massage, even. So far. Just a simple thing between himself and the man under his hands. God, really. A god who was currently close to hyperventilating in his arms, but still… “Stop it, Clark,” he said, pulling him back against him, feeling the planes of Superman’s strong back rest against his chest, the thin cloth of his undershirt, the bare skin of his clavicle. “Settle down, Superman.” Bruce awkwardly let his hands skate up and down Clark’s arms, petting him, and it seemed to help.

Superman relaxed in tiny increments. He closed his eyes, letting out one shuddering breath, and Bruce felt the man’s breathing slow. He was relaxing against Bruce, trusting him, and it was enough to both scare a mortal—even Batman—and make him a little… dizzy, almost. Giddy, like he was loose in a funhouse or an insane fever dream. He took a deep breath of his own. “Settle down,” he said again, voice just a whisper, and he said it to himself as much as to Clark. 

“I’m trying,” Superman said, his voice thready and nervous. “It’s not exactly easy.” 

“No.” Bruce eased his hand across the man’s taut stomach, watching over Clark’s shoulder. “It’s hard.”

Clark glared at him. 

He hadn’t necessarily meant it as a pun, not really, but Bruce couldn’t keep his eyes from crinkling at the corners, and that just made Superman glare harder. It wasn’t as intimidating, like this, as it might have been. He held the reins, so to speak. Called the shots. The ball was completely in Bruce’s court, thank god.

“You have to admit,” Bruce said, only barely preventing his mouth from breaking into a nervous smile, “this situation is ridiculous.” He leaned forward, letting more of his weight rest on Superman. “And we’ve gotten ourselves into some pretty ridiculous situations over the years. Remember the Toyman’s Death Robot?”

“Which one?”

“The one he set loose in Gotham Harbor.” Bruce slid his palm lower, sliding a hand under Superman’s waistband, against the bare, warm skin of his hip. And then Superman tensed with a little jolt and almost yelped, low and surprised, like the noise escaped him despite himself, as Bruce wrapped his hand around the man’s penis.

Superman looked terrified, like any moment he’d bolt. But he didn’t, and he was, as Bruce had duly noted, hard already. Not for the first time, Bruce was taken aback by just how well-endowed the man was. He’d seen him—they’d showered together, for God’s sake, but he’d never seen the man like this, and he’d certainly never held him in his hand, hard and heavy. 

Not as heavy as his back, though, resting against Bruce’s chest. Bruce let himself lean in. Superman could take it, and he rested his own weight in a counterpoint, letting Clark support him. Because he was Superman, a solid, dense wall of heated muscle. “Just think,” he said, feeling his chest rumble against Clark’s broad, warm back, letting his hands skim Superman’s strong, muscled chest, the sculpted pecs. “Remember the time we stopped the war on Cybrus Four with just the power of gravity and a lightning rod?”

“I do,” Clark said. “This still seems weirder, though.”

“Stop arguing.”

“No, I just—”

Bruce stilled his hand. “Stop talking, Superman.” 

Clark acquiesced, for once, and for the next few minutes the only sound was of their breathing, as Bruce slowly found a rhythm. “That work for you?” He finally asked, as Clark obviously was following his directive about words.

Superman nodded, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes tightly closed. 

“You can answer that, you know.”

“Yes,” Clark said, his voice a soft sigh.

Bruce breathed against Superman’s jaw, his nose slotting against the hollow just under it. He could smell his own aftershave and the scent of Clark, honest and clean, seeping into his senses. “That’s right, Clark, nice and easy.” He worked his right hand a little harder and Superman made a gratifying little noise. “You’re doing fine,” Bruce said, fighting the urge to babble—and where the hell had that come from? Batman didn’t babble. But maybe Bruce Wayne did. When he jerked off Superman. 

Clark made a little broken sound in the back of his throat as Bruce’s hand sped. “Shh, Superman.” He didn’t really want the man to stop making noise, not really—it was a helpful gauge—and not now that he was done complaining that this wouldn’t work, but it seemed like the kind of thing to say, the right kind of thing to whisper into Clark’s skin. “You’re doing fine.” 

“Bruce,” Clark said, and somehow he managed to infuse that one word with so much—need, want, gratitude, even—that Bruce had to nod against his neck, mouth bumping against his jaw a little. “Come on, Clark,” he said. “Let me help you out.”

Clark made a little strangled swallow, nodding back. “Bruce,” he whispered. “Yes.”

Bruce watched himself—his hand—watched Superman, chin against the man’s shoulder. It was an impressive sight, Clark in his fist, appearing and disappearing as he worked his hand up and down. A bead of moisture pearled at the tip and he swiped his thumb across it, gathering slickness and moisture, over and over, until his hand was sticky and damp and the room smelled like sex. Like sex with Superman, and his head swam a little at the concept. Bruce had to close his eyes and steady himself, focus on the slick stroke and pull, the sound of Clark’s hitching breath, Clark’s weight leaning against him, the feel of Clark’s taut stomach muscles beneath his left palm. 

Bruce’s eyelashes brushed Clark’s cheek, and this way, with his eyes safely closed, he brought his other hand to rest on Clark’s hip. Superman grabbed it—a little too hard, clutching at his wrist, and he opened his eyes to see Superman watching his hand move. He lifted his gaze to better see Clark’s face and their eyes met, Superman’s voice breaking with a groan as his pelvis surged forward to thrust into Bruce’s ready hand. 

“That’s it, big guy,” Bruce whispered into Superman’s neck. “That’s it. This good for you?”

Superman whispered, “Yes,” like he was pained, or maybe like it was a dare, and Bruce stroked harder, faster. “You’re so strong, Bruce,” he added, so softly that Bruce felt the words rumble out of Clark’s chest more than he actually heard them. 

“I’m flattered that you think so,” he finally whispered back. Then, as he realized to whom he was being compared, Bruce came back to reality just a bit. “Stronger than Lois.”

Superman startled in his arms, eyes flying fully open and squeezing Bruce’s left wrist so hard it wouldn’t have surprised him if a bone snapped. “Can we not talk about—” Clark started to say, but Bruce interrupted him. 

“Shh, Superman. Of course.” He pulled Clark closer, letting the round, spandex-covered globes of his perfect ass sink further up against his own crotch. He was hard too now, but it really couldn’t be helped. He did wish he’d thought of that, the power of suggestion, the way that the scent of sex could trigger ridiculous physiological reactions. Just another reason it would be better to have his Batsuit on, full protection, but he hadn’t, and for once, Batman was unprepared. No contingency plan, not for jerking off the Man of Steel. He was just going to have to go with it, hope Superman was too gone to notice.

Meanwhile, though, his hand was starting to cramp, and he had to wonder if Superman always had this kind of stamina. Related to that thought was the worry that this wouldn’t be enough to scratch Superman’s itch, get him through whatever this thing was. And Bruce wasn’t prepared to go farther. This was far enough, thank you very much. It was going to be horrifyingly awkward just dealing with the repercussions of this alone. “We never speak of this again, Superman,” he said into Clark’s ear.

“What?” Clark said, his voice muzzy and far-away. 

Bruce slowed his strokes enough to get the man’s attention. “We never,” he said, squeezing for emphasis, “never speak of this again.”

Superman snorted, a little pained grunt of a laugh at that, before speaking the words against Bruce’s cheek. “No problem, Bruce.”

“Alright then,” Bruce said, letting his teeth scrape against the side of Clark’s neck. Clark almost lept out of his skin, making a tortured little noise from somewhere deep in his chest, so Bruce stepped up his tactics. “Clark,” he said, stilling his hand, still tightly curled around Clark’s shaft. 

“Bruce,” Clark groaned, a little needy and wild. “Don’t stop.” 

“Not stopping, Clark.” Bruce kept his right hand exactly where it was but let his left hand wander, palming lower, and Clark gasped. Bruce narrowed his eyes, letting the tension build, calculating the quickest line from point a to point b. “Not stopping until you give it up,” he finally said, letting his hand begin again. “Fuck my fist, Superman.”

Clark shook in his arms. “Please, Bruce,” he said, his words strangled and tight. 

“It’s okay, Clark. Just let it happen,” Bruce said into Clark’s neck, letting his tongue and teeth play against the skin. “Let me take care of you, big guy.”

Clark breathed a soft little crooning noise. 

Bruce’s voice dropped, Batman low and very husky, still teasing with both hands. “Just do it, Superman.” 

Clark groaned at the words, and it was intoxicating to be the cause, and to hold all that barely leashed power. “Oh, god—” and Bruce pumped faster, his mouth finding Clark’s jaw line, tracing it up to his earlobe, then biting. 

“Bruce,” Superman whispered.

“That’s it.” Right hand rough and hard, twisting on the upstroke, he let the fingers of his left hand fondle lower, whispering directly into Clark’s ear. “Holding it up for days, Superman. Let it go, Clark. I know what you need. You’re going to come, Clark? Come for me, Superman. Let it go—let it go for me.” 

“Bruce!” Clark’s head turned, sliding skin on skin, and Bruce did know what he needed. Their lips met and he filled Superman’s mouth with his tongue, wet and warm and that’s officially when Bruce lost the reins, had to give the game over to Superman. Clark shifted, turning in his arms, all that muscle and heat and strength shifting and suddenly the tables were turned and Bruce was flat on his back beneath the heavy weight of the Man of Steel. 

“Whoa, Superman,” he managed to huff out, but then he couldn’t speak at all, because Clark’s mouth was on him, needy and insistent, kissing the god damn hell out of him, kissing like he’d die if his mouth wasn’t on Bruce’s. Bruce fought for dominance, but it was a completely useless struggle, and suddenly everything was ten times more intimate than it had been when he’d been in control. Superman’s hands held his, Bruce was holding hands with Superman, pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, held down with ease—grip gentle but impossibly firm, as Superman dry humped the god damn fucking hell out of him, the man’s perfect length fitting snugly against his very, very interested cloth-covered erection. 

“So close, Bruce,” Clark said, finally releasing Bruce’s lips to breathe the words into his collarbone, and Bruce knew the one way he could still come out on top, metaphorically, even if he was on the bottom, pinned beneath a worked-up Superman. 

He resorted to every trick he’d ever used, ever. Every mental image, every distracting calculation, every unappealing situation he’d ever employed in order to hold out, even while he upped the pressure for Clark. 

“Superman,” Bruce said, all Batman harsh and demanding when Clark went for his neck, kissing his way down, warm and sweet and Jesus Christ that was too much—“Come for me, Superman,” he said, voice low and silky even though it wasn’t a request, it was an order. “Superman,” Batman said, “Give it up.” And Superman cried out like he’d been gut-punched, breaking and spilling over Bruce, coming in thick, hot ribbons over Bruce’s slacks and his undershirt and—oh, god, he took a cum shot on the underside of his chin. All the way up on his chin. From Superman. 

Bruce glared at the man.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce!” Clark swiped it off, looking chagrinned—not enough, to Bruce's mind, even though he did seem horrified. But Bruce took pity on him. He let Clark kiss him through the aftershocks, tangled his hands—which Clark had finally let him have back—in the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck and finished the kiss, with only a little bit of a bite. Then he pulled back, as much as he could, licking his lips.

Clark’s eyes were wide and blown, but it was only a just-fucked kind of look, not the wild, purple eyes of earlier. His lips were kiss swollen and his hair, where Bruce had dragged his hands through it, was mussed. His uniform was as much a wreck as Bruce’s clothes and bed and he was breathing deep, uneven breaths. He blinked at Bruce, then pulled him in for one more kiss. 

Bruce didn’t protest, not until Clark’s hand reached between them, obviously ready to finish the job for Bruce, if that’s what Bruce wanted. If that’s what he’d allow. Clark’s eyes held the question, and he waited.

“No,” Bruce said, taking a deep breath. 

“I could,” Clark tried, stumbling little over his words, “take care of that for you.” 

“No.”

“Reciprocate,” Superman said, clearing his throat. “It’d make it easier. Even things out and...” Clark waved a hand. “And so forth.”

Bruce shook his head. 

Clark nodded, once. “Manipulative bastard,” he said, but he said it kindly. “Always have to hold the last card...” He let his words trail off, a soft, relaxed smile ghosting over the corners of his mouth. 

Bruce forced his breathing slow and easy. There was no way he was going to let this get any more complicated than it was already. “I have work to do, Clark. You know where the showers are.”

“Fine, Bruce.” Superman smiled, pulling away and sitting up, and it was ridiculous to see that smile, all apple-pie and baseball and cornfields, while the man was just-fucked and covered in his own come, but Superman made it work, somehow. “Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “All in the line of duty, Superman.”

Clark knew him better than that, though, and laughed, normal and back to his old self, although his gaze was focused completely on Bruce’s mouth. “Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyebrows creased, and he shifted back toward the headboard to lean against it, just to give himself a little space from Superman. Out from under him, anyway. “We said we wouldn’t talk about this.”

Clark shrugged, standing, not the least embarrassed, apparently, after what had passed between them. He leaned down, crowding Bruce, with his hands on the headboard, one on either side of him. “Bruce,” he said, speaking softly into Bruce’s ear, the feel of the word causing a little shiver that Bruce hid as soon as it started. “Who said anything about talking, Bruce? I owe you, big guy.”


End file.
